Coffee and a Collar

Good Friday

And God held in his hand A small globe. Look, he said. The son looked. Far off, As though through water, he saw A scorched land of fierce Colour. The light burned There; crusted buildings Cast their shadows; a bright Serpent, a river Uncoiled itself, radiant With slime.

On a bare Hill, a bare tree saddened The sky. Many people Held out their thin arms To it, as though waiting For a vanished April To return to its crossed Boughs. The son watched Them. Let me go there, he said.

(Thanks to WMP+ over at I are a writer who posted this on her Facebook page earlier today)